The Magnificent Maxwell
by Kineil D. Wicks
Summary: Wilson receives an invitation from his mysterious neighbor and decides to investigate...
1. The Invitation

**I was playing _Don't Starve_ whilst Mom was watching _The Great Gatsby,_ and this happened.**

**_Don't_**** _Starve_ © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**_The Great Gatsby_**** © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

* * *

Wilson Percival Higgsbury stood in front of the mirror and straightened his outfit for the tenth or so time.

His intention, upon accepting the invitation from his cousin and her husband, was to come to New York, settle in a little house on West Egg, and focus on his stocks job, with his science experiments on the side. In reality, he had had quite a bit of difficulty in his side pursuits, what with his cousin pulling him across the sound and his incredibly noisy neighbor on this side.

Indeed, nearly every night since he had arrived, his neighbor had thrown a raucous party, a compendium of cacophony that kept Wilson up nights. He had been tempted to go over there and file a complaint, but gave it up as too much trouble.

He was surprised, then, when he received a letter from next door. And within the letter—a formal invitation to a party Friday night.

He had done his level best to ignore it, but finally gave in to scientific curiosity. Which was why he was standing in front of his mirror this Friday night, trying to decide if he should spruce up further, before finally settling on his dapper best. He snatched up his top hat and his invitation and headed next door.

The minute Wilson strode through the gates, he was swept up in the noisy mess. Ragtime and jazz fought for dominance, people danced and drank, and Wilson was left with a severe case of disorientation. He resolved to find his host, thank him, and be on his way.

An hour later, that proved easier said than done. He had met a multitude of interesting people, from a strongman to a mime to a librarian (that one had surprised him, considering the level of noise there), and now he was trying to carry on a conversation with a lovely young lady who had given her name as Willow Burnshigh.

The conversation was more an exercise in bellowing. "I said, I received an invitation—"

"What?" Willow asked again.

Wilson breathed in. At some point he had gained a drink, and he gestured with the glass. "I _said_, I received an invitation, but I can't seem to find our host."

"You probably won't," Willow told him, a shade below bellowing. "No one gets invited to these parties—they just show up."

Wilson stared as she drifted off to talk with twin blondes, who had introduced themselves as Wendy and Abigail. Wilson shook his head and tried again elsewhere.

Later saw no more success. He ducked around two people dressed in elaborate pine-tree costumes, a man juggling axes, and a boy dressed up as a spider before he finally found a place of relative safety and quiet, nestled in the curve of one of the expansive stairwells. He took a steadying swig of his drink, resolving to find his way out of this crazy place, without even _bothering_ with the host—

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson looked up to see a man, slightly older than himself, smirking down from his perch on the steps. He had a cigar in his hand, making Wilson glad he was down there away from the smoke.

"Well, it's a little loud," Wilson called.

"That's what makes a party," the man called back, coming down the steps to converse. Wilson drifted over. "No one likes quiet intimate parties—they always drift to the loud obnoxious ones that they can lose themselves in."

Wilson's desire to leave evaporated as he conversed with this person. After a while, he couldn't help but ask the question that had been weighing on him since he had arrived. "Excuse me," he asked, as they were walking up a flight of steps. "I don't suppose you'd know—I received an invitation to this party, but I can't find the host. I don't suppose you know this Maxwell character, do you?"

"I do," the man said, his higher position on the stairs adding to his height. "I know him quite intimately."

"Really?" Wilson asked, brightening. "I don't suppose you could point him out for me."

"You're looking at him, pal," the man said. "_I'm_ Maxwell."

It wasn't until much later that Wilson found he was the only one to ever receive an invitation.


	2. The Luncheon

**Due to ****_The Great Gatsby_**** being on again, here's chapter 2.**

**_Don't _****_Starve_**** © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**_The Great Gatsby_**** © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

It was nearly a week later that Wilson received another invitation from Maxwell, this time for lunch in the city. Upon Wilson's arrival on the estate, Maxwell bundled him into a powerful convertible and zoomed off.

During that week, Wilson had heard a lot about Maxwell, too much for it to all be true. Wilson preferred to stay out of it, and had hoped there were no more reasons to visit the estate. But a direct invitation would have been rude to refuse.

At the moment, Wilson was regretting his decision. Maxwell drove like a maniac, and only seemed half-focused on driving—the other half was focused on carrying on a conversation with Wilson.

"So, pal, what did you think of the party last night?"

"It was fine," Wilson replied, voice rising an octave as Maxwell narrowly missed a car.

"You should come to another one—you meet the most interesting people there. There are some interesting people where we're going for lunch, come to think of it."

Wilson merely nodded, not trusting a scream not to fly out instead. They blew by a billboard with a pair of glasses on them, and Wilson squinched his eyes shut, hoping the motion sickness would pass.

"I suppose you've heard a lot about me," Maxwell continued.

"A bit," Wilson noised through his teeth. Calm breaths, calm….

"Well let me tell you then—alleviate your fears.

"Firstly, I've never murdered a person in my life. A rabbit, once, but that was an accident. I served in the War, got all the medals—here's one," to which Maxwell handed a small medal to Wilson. "Travelled the world, made my fortune, and now I'm here." Maxwell glanced at him. "So what's your story, pal? What brings you to West Egg?"

"My cousin," Wilson said, strained. Maxwell hadn't slowed once he arrived at the city. "There's a policeman following you, by the way."

Maxwell glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled over. Wilson resisted bolting from the car right then and there.

But after a short conversation, the police officer let them go on their way.

"Friend of the commissioner," Maxwell explained.

* * *

The restaurant was basement level, surprisingly posh, in a speakeasy sort of way.

"That's Leif over there," Maxwell said, directing him as the waiter took them to "his usual table." "Over there is Mr. Pegkeng. And up there, that dancer, her name is Miss Ginger, but everyone calls her the Spider Queen. You should see her dance."

"Mmm," Wilson noised, entranced. Maxwell sat him down before sitting down himself. A waiter came over and deposited a few drinks. Another came over and told him he had a few messages to attend to.

"I have to go," Maxwell told him. "But don't worry pal—I've got someone else coming over to fill the lunch conversation."

Wilson watched him go, wondering who he had in mind.

"Oh, Mr. Wilson! So _you're_ who Maxwell had in mind."

Wilson looked up to see Willow Burnshigh standing over him. He scrambled to get her a seat.

Wilson had to admit, Miss Willow was frightening, but in an intriguing way, he felt—she was certainly different from other women he had met. He watched as she played with the fire from the table candle, the waiter delivering their food and drink unnoticed.

"So," she said, finally taking her attention away from the fire to pick at her food—she had braised eggplant, pirogues, and honeyed nuggets, Wilson noted; he looked down to see he had some sort of meat stew. "I suppose Maxwell told you all about himself."

"He did," Wilson said, suddenly regretting not paying more attention—threat of imminent death tended to distract him. "But I feel like I don't know him any better now than I did before."

"I found out I didn't know him at all," Willow said, taking a bite of pirogue. "He talked to me the other night, told me the whole thing—why he's been having all these parties, why you're so important—"

"What?" Wilson asked, startled. "Willow, what's going on?"

"It's scandalous, absolutely scandalous, and you and I will be in the thick of it! Isn't it wonderful?"

_"Willow!"_ Wilson snapped, eliciting silence from the nearby tables. He waited until conversation resumed before he continued, in a controlled hiss, "What is going on? What does this Maxwell want with me?"

Willow rolled her eyes at him, then leaned closer, the fire catching the light strangely in her eyes. "He wants you to introduce him to your cousin Charlie—invite her to tea."

Wilson blanched. "But….But she's _married."_

Willow beamed. "I know—that's what makes it so scandalous."


	3. The Apartment Flat

**I seem to have become invested in this story, and will end up writing it to its end. That means now I must mark it as incomplete, hahaha...**

**And with this chapter, it becomes a true crossover-Tom's here.**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

**PS: Special thanks to Dara999 for reviewing thus far and alerting me to the fact that this uploaded funny the first time. Evil computer...**

The next day saw Wilson heading into town with his cousin Charlie's husband, Tom. They had stopped at a gas station on the way there to fill up the tank, during which time Wilson had become suspicious of Tom's behavior—especially the way the gas man's wife acted upon seeing them.

"Say, you've been awful quiet," Tom noted—making the first time that day he had noticed Wilson's silence.

"I'm thinking," Wilson said, shorter than he would have liked.

"Oh right—your 'science experiments.'"

In reality, Wilson was thinking about the conversations he had had yesterday. Ask him to ruin his cousin's marriage? Preposterous!

"So where are we going?" Wilson asked as they pulled away.

"Just to an apartment flat I rent in the city," Tom told him. "We're going to a party."

"I've been to a party," Wilson said, still distracted. "It was quite impressive."

"Yes, I've heard that the parties over in West Egg are extravagant—but you just can't trust those _nouveau_-_riche_. Best to stay on East Egg—Charlie's been asking about moving you into one of the spare rooms."

Wilson would probably do it for his cousin, but he couldn't get himself excited about living under the same roof as her husband. "What's your opinion?"

"Well, your science would have to stay where it is, but the influence would do you good. Ah, we're here."

* * *

They had walked up a flight of stairs to a gaudily appointed apartment, and within thirty minutes, Wilson had divined what Tom was up to there.

"I'm leaving," Wilson announced, standing up and heading for the door.

"Now hold on," Tom said, catching him by the arm and holding him in place; Tom's physique as a polo player meant he could do that to Wilson's willowy frame. "You're not going to spoil the party, are you?"

"I ought to," Wilson retorted, dropping his voice to an angry hiss. "You're cheating on your wife!"

"No one's getting hurt! Although you might, come to think of it."

"Good-bye, Tom," Wilson said shortly, pulling away.

He was out the door and down the hall before Tom was at the door, yelling after him.

"I hear one word of this breathed elsewhere, and so help me, _I'll make you pay, Higgsbury!"_

"Write me a check," Wilson shot back.

* * *

It was evening before Wilson had made his way back to West Egg. He had been so angry that he ended up in Battery Park before realizing he was completely lost. He only had enough taxi money to get him across the bridge, and had to hoof it the rest of the way.

As a result, he was completely exhausted by the time he arrived back to his house, to see that there was another party going on at Maxwell's.

The good news was, he had had plenty of time to make his decision. He walked through the gate with the intention of finding the host and informing him of said decision.

Unfortunately, two hours of searching provided the same results the first party had provided—he couldn't find Maxwell at all.

Wilson ducked into a side room, which proved to be a library. He wandered through a bit, soaking in the silence, despairing of finding Maxwell. He sighed, exhausted.

"_Shhh,_" a little old lady noised, glaring at him over a book and pince-nez glasses.

"Sorry," Wilson noised in an undertone. "I'm just looking for the host, Maxwell."

"I doubt you'll find him," the lady informed him, putting the book up and pulling another out. "If you ask twenty people if they've seen him, they'll give twenty different descriptions. I don't believe he exists."

Wilson considered this. The man he knew as Maxwell was certainly real, but….

Wilson shook his head and departed, aiming for the gate and home.

* * *

Wilson made his way out of the cacophonous party, rubbing his temples and staggering for his house. As soon as he found an appropriate horizontal surface, he was going to flop down on it and sleep. It had been too long a day.

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson started. There was Maxwell, leaning against the oak tree in Wilson's yard and smoking a cigar.

"I was looking for you, actually," Wilson said, rubbing his eyes. He was dizzy with fatigue, but he had to have this discussion. "I thought you'd be at your party."

"I was waiting up for you," Maxwell told him, knocking some ash from his cigar. "How was your lunch with Miss Burnshigh?"

Wilson thought back on that, and how it had ended, with him running out the door, frantically hailing a taxi, with Willow tugging at his arm.

"Oh please, Mr. Wilson, you _must_ understand!" she had pleaded. "Charlie's not happy with Tom—she loves Maxwell! But he wouldn't marry her unless he had money, lots of it—" She was talking rapidly now, as a taxi pulled to the curb. "But he took too long, and word went round that he was dead, so she married Tom—but the morning of, she got a letter saying Maxwell was still alive, and _oh_, she was miserable, but it was too late, see, and—"

"Miss Willow!" Wilson snapped. "You can't expect me to break up my cousin's marriage! I won't help, and that's _final!"_

But now…now, with the revelation of what Tom was up to—their hasty departure from Chicago, Charlie's attitude at the dinner he had had with them…it all made sense now. And now….

"Say, pal, did you fall asleep on me?"

Wilson looked up, his decision made.

"I'll ask my cousin Charlie to come to tea the day after tomorrow," Wilson informed him. "I need time to mow the lawn." There was no grass to be found, but Wilson needed his sleep. "You're welcome to join us, if you're so inclined."

Maxwell's smile was visible in the dark.

"It's a date, then."


End file.
